


Generation 'Nam

by hillbillied



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Vietnam, Family Fluff, Gay Rights, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protests, Self-Discovery, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 20:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillbillied/pseuds/hillbillied
Summary: 1969, Washington DC. A car driven by three draft dodgers - Eugene Sledge, Merriell Shelton, and Romus Burgin - pulls up to the city. With the Vietnam War at its peak and protests splitting the country, navigating their new life on the run isn't going to be easy.Good thing two ex-marines and a rocking 60's soundtrack are around to help.





	Generation 'Nam

****

 

Chapter forewords taken from exerts of the following:

 **With the Good Breed** by _Eugene Sledge_

 **Washington Marine** by _Eugene Sledge (Posthumously)_

 **War of the Damned: A Youth at Home during the Vietnam War** by _Romus Burgin_

 

* * *

 

“ _That Summer of 1969 truly changed us as young men – myself included. A unique revelation presented itself, or rather; a wave of revelations. Each opening our eyes a little wider to the world that had eluded us in the relative sleepiness of Mobile, and the rest stretching our hearts a little bigger, to make room for those one could never have imagined we would have room for._ ”

**_Eugene Sledge, With the Good Breed (P. 23)_ **

 

 

A worn leather duffle, crumpled clothes spilling out between the handles, landed with a thump in the narrow hallway. It was followed swiftly by Merriell Shelton’s bony ass-cheeks, landing just as hard as the boy was forced out of apartment 24.

His friends scrambled after him – Eugene Sledge, who hurriedly attempted to bring the sneering young man back to his feet, and Romus Burgin, stumbling backwards where he too was pushed through the doorway. A second bag followed, tossed at their collective feet, skidding over the wooden floorboards. The unforgiving eyes of the building’s landlord appeared in the entrance to what had been their home, teeth gritted and no mercy visible on his gruesome features.

As Shelton glared and Sledge attempted to brush him down, backs pressed fearfully against the far wall, Burgin spoke in a strained pant.

“Please, Mr. Larkin-!” He tried, but was cut short.

“Please _nothing_.” The man spat, looking between the sorry trio with disgust, “Don’t know what backwater shit you do down South, but up here in Washington-“ He waved the bills in his fist before their eyes, “We pay our fucking rent.”

The crumpled papers were flung violently at Burgin’s chest. The boy flinched as the white shards scraped over his shirt, fluttering to the floor in a whirl of overdue notices.

He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a breath to steady his nerves and swallow his pride.

“ _Please_ , sir-“

He was cut off again, this time by a finger prodding his ribs. Smaller than the grown adult who pushed him, Burgin fell back a step, chest caving under the force of the jab. Still between their aggressor and his friends, it wasn’t a moment before his lungs had inflated with a new, vigorous determination. He drew himself to his full unimpressive height and squared up to the other man, going down kicking even if the battle was already lost.

Larkin moved back into the barren apartment with a sneer.

“Bother me again,” He said, “And I’m calling the fucking cops.”

The sound of the door slamming made each of them recoil, left standing alone in the hallway. Worn floorboards creaked as Burgin bent down to collect up the payment notices, of overdue bills and scribbled apologies of varying degrees. Even in their situation, he didn’t like to leave a mess.

Maybe they could use them as fire starters when they ultimately ended up under a railway bridge.

“An’ a Merry Christmas t’you too, fucker!” Shelton hollered, shaking his head slowly like the argument was still going. No response came from the locked door before them. The last word was, _technically_ , his. It felt more than a little hollow.

Eugene looked to him with a sigh, their very own _SNAFU_ , not quite cruel enough to display disapproval. For once, he kept the comment that it was actually March to himself. Now was not the time for semantics.

“Well, boys,” Burgin said, running a hand through his overgrown locks. His voice was surprisingly strong for someone in their position. “Guess we better make ourselves scarce.”

It was quite the understatement.

No home, no jobs, no money. Just the three of them in a foreign city. Not exactly an improvement - It was almost worse than their original predicament.

_Almost._

Eugene chalked it up to moving sideways, rather than forwards. But as Snafu knelt down to help push their tangled clothes back inside their bags, he wondered if this really was better than the alternative.

They were alive, yes. For how long, however, was uncertain. (Just like before.) With no place to sleep tonight and the sun already drooping in the sky, the cold chills of the dark would catch them soon enough. Could their jackets and arms around each other protect them from nature itself? Time would only tell.

It wasn’t an answer Eugene was looking forward to receiving. The thought of waking up beside frozen corpses or even a shivering wreck was enough to have him swallowing thickly, turning his eyes to the ugly green wallpaper in desperation.

The cracking lime paint stared back. It said nothing.

It reminded him of Burgin’s Ford. Same horrific colour, slightly more acidic than the car’s pale paint job. It was a trend Eugene could only pretend to get behind.

Yet he’d been so relieved when that four-wheeled mount had rolled up on the street before him, carrying with it his knight in shining armour and escape from dragon’s castle.

It had been November, 1968. 4 months now, an age ago. And that lime green Ford was the last hope Eugene Sledge had of avoiding a direct ticket to Saigon. Return journey seat unreserved until further notice.

Not that he thought his father hadn’t tried; _If you had the dough, you didn’t have to go_. And as the son of one of Mobile’s most well-respected doctors, of course they had the dough.

It’d been a mess, from receiving notice of his conscription, to his parent’s anguished arguments, to the proud American flag fluttering over their doorway. Too little, too late. Too much indecision.

Eugene feared he, too, had inherited the disease. His father hadn’t the conviction to pretend his heart murmur was still present, exempting him from the draft, through lies or bribery or good-breeding. His mother hadn’t the fervour to forbid him from going, to push against the grain of Mobile’s patriotic congratulations, of their community’s support for the conflict. What would the neighbourhood think, after all.

And Sledge - what choice did he have.

All he had was the dust that rolled over his shining black shoes, winter uniform looking far too pressed and clean for someone heading off to war. To the taxi across the street, to the nearest Marine boot camp for a buzzcut and a mean looking uniform.

Burgin slammed on the brakes and skidded in the way of that. Through the rolled down window, Eugene could see Snafu slouched in the passenger seat, the same uniform adorning his chest.

(He’d been heading out that day too. Same story, only with even less chance of getting out of it. _No dough? You gotta go_. Sledge had naively hoped they might be able to travel together one last time.)

“Mornin’, Burgie.” Eugene greeted. He bent down so he could speak to the pair.

The only one still in civilian clothing – Burgie – turned to him with a stern look. No pleasantries were returned, just a hard stare and a heavy sigh. His knuckles were white were he gripped the steering wheel.

“Eugene.” The older boy greeted, “Glad we didn’t miss you.”

The relief in his tone was crushing.

A moment of silence followed. A glance over the roof of the Ford revealed the taxi driver across the street, still obliviously smoking from his window. No one would be the wiser if they took a moment to talk.

“What are you doin’ here?” Sledge asked, crouching down once more.

His red hair flashed in the sunlight as he caught the cap that tumbled from his head. Across the seats, he could feel Shelton smirk. Burgie didn’t comment.

“Eugene,” He said, “We’re going to Washington.”

Before any questions could fall from Eugene’s lips, he was cut short by a raised hand.

“And, if you got any sense left,” The driver continued, “You’ll come too.”

A confused huff, not quite a laugh and not quite a scoff, punctuated a second of blissful ignorance. Then realisation dawned with a heavy swallow and a tension alighting in Sledge’s shoulders. So, that was why Snafu was reclining in the passenger seat, rather than being assigned a bunk at Fort Jackson.

“You-” The redhead struggled, “You’re-!”

“Fuck, _yes_ , Sledgehammer!” Shelton cried.

His elbow dug into Burgin’s jeans as he leant over the young man. His head appeared at the window despite the complaints that he was crushing the poor boy.

“I ain’t getting shipped out to some shithole t’ get shot by some fuckin’ gook!”

Burgie made the choice to push him away before that discussion could continue, back into his seat with a disapproving shove. He turned to their company with a look half-apologetic, yet he made no sound to disagree.

“Draft dodging.” Sledge confirmed.

“Yes.”

Another glance over the lime green hood showed the taxi driver eyeing them with confusion, unsure if they were the ones he’d been paid to pick up. Suddenly, Eugene was incredibly grateful he’d forced his parents to stay with Deacon inside and say their farewells on the porch.

The plague of indecisiveness twisted the boy’s gut painfully. His loyalties were divided.

“I-” He didn’t know what to say.

It was all a rush. He had been thrown into this and now he was being threatened with a swift throw out again. There was fire in his blood and it was far from courage or a lust for violence.

It was fear. For the future, whether he crossed the road in silence or slipped into the backseat of Burgin’s Ford. Their eyes met again as the blond looked to him expectantly.

“I-!” Eugene said. He inhaled deeply, yet could only force out a whisper, “I can’t-“

Burgie’s eyes closed frustrated as Snafu audibly groaned.

“I’m sorry.” Sledge tried. It felt as if he were pleading guilty to his own death sentence.

They didn’t want to hear it. And, frankly, neither did he.

But the taxi driver was honking, waving from his window. He called out Eugene’s name and the redhead was forced to straighten up with a tight smile. Wave his hand back and nod. Sign away his freedom to a difficult drive and an even harder year.

A hand fisted itself in the fabric of his greens. Sledge was dragged back down to window-height with a grunt.

“ _Eugene_.” Burgin said, ignoring the honk of the taxi driver.

His left hand still gripped the steering wheel tightly, fingers flexing with a fear they’d never seen him carry before.

“You really ready t’die for your country?” He asked.

Sledge’s eyes flickered to the collar of his pale shirt, to his worn jeans. His belt buckle, anything but those eyes and their piercing stare.

“A’course.” He lied.

Burgin’s hand didn’t let go.

“You ready t’kill for it?” He asked.

Eugene looked at him then. With eyes filled to the brim with flashes of the newspaper, the radio, the television. Scraps and headlines and whispered conversations. Protests in London and a place called My Lai. Somewhere he couldn’t pronounce but was sure children didn’t deserve to die in.

The good wars were over, if there had ever been any at all. They’d been born too late and now all that was left to fight was the jungle and people in straw hats.

Not that that made a difference now. All that mattered was the honking from across the street, the open gate behind him, and Burgin’s lime green car parked up between him and the war.

The backdoor had swung open with a heavy clunk, military issue duffle thrown callously onto the leather. It was followed by its owner, who slammed himself inside with a thrill and a rage that set his heart racing.

Snafu had laughed as Burgie pulled back on the handbrake, engine roaring into life.

“That’s our Sledgehammer!”

That lime green paint job drove away. It left behind a lime green wall.

Eugene blinked. A hand gripped his shoulder, squeezing the muscle protectively. Fingers barely older than his own, yet somehow ageless in Sledge’s mind.

Burgie smiled supportively.

“C’mon.”

He nodded towards the spiral staircase that would take them back onto Washington’s streets. Out to the lime green car pulled up on the curb.

They wouldn’t be able to keep it for long. A shame beyond shames; Burgin loved that car. Maybe they’d get a good deal for it.

The squeak of hinges had the trio turning their faces away from their forsaken exit. Wide-eyed and caught in the headlights, unable to run fast enough to avoid the door to apartment 27 pulling back. It revealed a familiar face. Concerned eyes peered down the hallway as their neighbour surveyed the scene. A middle-aged man perhaps, but who were they to tell.

“You boys alright?” He asked carefully.

There was silence between a flushed Eugene and a distrusting Snafu. Burgie hurriedly scooped up the remaining mess, bundling it into his and Snafu’s arms as quickly as possible. A shove of leather and clothes, followed by retreating feet.

“Sure, Mr. Haldane.” Burgin hurried out, “We’re alright.”

“I heard a commotion.”

The three shared comically confused looks, shaking their heads. Snafu blew out his cheeks, even let out a whistle.

Burgin continued; “No, sir. No commotion.” He had to pause, choosing his words, “Just a lil’… disagreement with Mr. Larkin.”

Mr. Haldane raised an eyebrow.

“ _Disagreement_.”

All three boys nodded vigorously.

Haldane’s gaze moved over the bundle of clothes, bags, and crumpled papers. A short journey to the locked door of their former apartment and then to their stiff expressions laid out all the answers he needed. The situation was quite clear. His brows creased worriedly, jaw moving in thought. He opened his mouth to speak, but Burgin was already dragging Eugene down the hallway towards the stairs. One hand on his arm, the other on Snafu’s collar.

Haldane called after them.

“Boys-!”

“Nice seein’ you, Mr. Haldane!” Eugene cried, shoes slamming on the steps as the three of them scrambled to escape down the stairs.

Out onto the cold streets of Washington DC; the big city they didn’t quite know, despite staying there for months. Every corner they thought they’d memorised seemed to turn around to another new street, another road to walk.

They’d had the time to explore while looking for work, for trouble to make and then flee from. Exciting, until the money they’d brought had dried up. Now they stood on the frosty sidewalk, their lives in bags and the bags on their shoulders.

Eugene instinctively buried his hands under his armpits against the cold.

He wondered if he’d made the wrong decision.


End file.
